Chapter 8: Granny Trudy vs camping

Trudy nonchalantly picked up a sack of flour they had brought along as rations. “Mole, empty that crate and pour this in.”

Mole stopped mid-tale about clinging to a ceiling. “But why?”

“Because I have an idea. I can’t guarantee it’ll work, but we might have a shot. Let me tell you a story …”

“Hey now, why do you get to tell one?”

“Because it’s a good one for a change. Picture it: Alburg, 1563. It’s a quiet morning, for about five minutes, because without warning Gnobbeldorffer’s granary explodes, raining scorched grain for miles. It turns out, a disgruntled former worker gave a colleague his last cigarettes as a going-away gift, and the idiot smoked them right then and there, which set the dust on fire. And the grain never did taste right. Now, how we’ll distract the dragon …”

Trudy explained, Mole nodded, Dolly shrugged, Hungerford chewed off what remained of his nails. Mole poured the flour into the crate and pressed the lid on, from which he had broken off a strategic two-inch piece.

“It’s only holding us in one claw. Foot. And it’s flying, so the dust won’t be around long. So this needs to explode right on target without setting us on fire. You know what to do, Mole?”

“Shake it a bit, wedge the crate under a scale, light the fire, get the hells out of dodge,” Mole rubbed his hands together in anticipation of an adventure.

“And you can do that?”

“Well, it’s enough that I find my way back and hold on to the cart somehow, right?” He tugged at the rope they’d wound around his middle and fastened the other end to the sturdiest looking thing, which was the driver’s seat.

Trudy examined the knots and tried to remember which god was in charge of sheer dumb luck and whether or not they took emergency requests. “Ford, the second the dragon lets go, you need to cast.”

“And how will I know that?”

“By looking, boy!”

Munck looked. He first looked up, at scales where the sky should be, stretching over what seemed liked miles, and realised he might end his short life on the other side of them. Then he made the mistake of looking down. The spellbook nearly fell from his hand as he swayed.

“Pull yourself together, Ford!” Trudy grabbed his shoulders roughly and all but shook him out of his patched robes. “You’re on a holy wizard quest!”

Munck wrenched his gaze away from the ten-thousand-foot fall and back at Trudy’s beady eyes, which provided no solace. “It’s not holy.”

“You’ll be faced with two small children staring holes into your soul when you tell them you let their granny die up here.”

“Guilt won’t work!”

Trudy let go of him and turned her back. “Of course. It would be too much to ask that you get a poor old widow back home safely to her family after wrenching her from her home in her twilight years …”

Hungerford squirmed. “Alright, maybe guilt will work. Mole … we can start.”

“Righty-o,” the old adventurer, one hand cradling the box under his arm, began a surprisingly nimble ascent up the dragon’s leg. The other three watched him select a decently sized scale. Holding on with one hand, he wedged the box under it and lit a match on his belt, then tossed it in before scarpering down as quickly as he could.

He reached the cart just so and barely hung on. The explosion was almost instant, as was a confused screech from up above, not unlike a rusty metal door opening.

Hungerford raised his old staff and spoke the first words, but when the dust cloud cleared, he noticed a bigger problem. Two of them, actually, in the form of black talons poking through the covering of the cart like the world’s most dangerous coat hooks.

“It’s still holding on!”

The dragon had loosened its grip momentarily but was now squeezing the talons to regain its prey.

To make matters worse, this upset Trudy. “Oh … Mole, give me a leg up!”

“Um …”

“Just do it!”

Even with the giant holding her up while standing precariously on the driver’s seat, Trudy reached the dragon’s claw just so. “Punch don’t fail me now!”

Trudy drew her fist back and swung.

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The world fell past the cart. When the first treetops where level with the wheels, the landscape graciously decided to slow as the spell finally took hold.

Horse and wagon set hard upon forest ground.

Hungerford popped up along strewn boxes and sacks. “We’re alive? We’re alive! Are we alive?”

“Within reason,” Trudy grumbled, sitting up and massaging her aching hand. Punching out a dragon was a lot different from punching an oversized pig. “Somebody calm down that horse, the poor beast is about to turn belly up.”

Dolly shook pine needles out of her blouse while Hungerford shakily picked his way through the ruined vehicle to the horse. “I’m still breathing. What’s with stretch?”

Mole, lying face down at the bottom, gave them the thumbs up. He rose gingerly, pushing the other two off himself. “Any chance for a rolling pin treatment?”

Still busy massaging her knuckles, Trudy shook her head. “You’ll have to ask Dolly.”

“How’s the hand?” Dolly jabbed a finger at the red and purple swollen thing that wouldn’t fit into a boxer’s glove.

“Swollen.”

“You probably broke something.”

“No, it’s just a bit battered, I’ll walk it off.”

“Do we have anything to use as a bandage? Mole, take off your shirt.”

“Well, if you think it’s necessary …”

“Do not take off your shirt, Mole, I found the bandages,” Munck said over Dolly’s mumbled “Damn!”

“Here, hold the bowl.” Munck grabbed one of their water bottles that was still whole and poured the contents into the bowl in which he made Trudy bath her hand until the swelling went down at least a little before he bandaged her, all trembling fingers and tutting sounds.

“It’ll be dark soon,” said Mole. “We might as well make camp.”

“Make camp? What do you mean, make camp?” Hungerford looked about himself. The wagon was only a light breeze away from breaking in half, their belongings, rations and all, were strewn about in presumably a radius of a mile. Between this, Trudy’s injury, and the fact they had no idea where they were, what they had to make was a prayer circle.

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“Well, you know … set up a place to sleep, make a fire, check the perimeter for wolves, lions, and assassins …”

“You do that,” the other three chimed unisono.

“Dinner might be a poor affair,” Trudy grumbled, searching through what was left of their supplies with one non-throbbing hand. “I can do us a soup if someone knows how to find water.”

The elders turned to Hungerford, who blinked back confused. “What do you want me to do?”

Mole gestured vaguely in a way he seemed to think spells worked. “Water detection spell.”

“There’s no such thing! How do you think this works, I just take off my hat and the tip will point me to a water source?”

“Yes, that’s how our wizard used to do it,” Mole nodded.

Hungerford furiously yanked off his hat. “There is no way this … oh.”

Mole squinted at the crooked hat tip. “Seems about a mile westward if I’m reading the stitches right. Miss Trudy, hand me the empty bottles? I might as well do that while I check for assassins.”

“You do that, Mole. Dolly, help me salvage.”

Instead, Dolly crossed her arms and took an interest in the next best tree. “I didn’t sign up for unpaid labour …”

“Now.”

“Alright, alright. Well, the potatoes are unscathed.”

“Is that so?” Trudy said nonchalantly, not breaking eye contact with Munck, who swallowed uneasily.

“I’ll see about firewood!” he said quickly and retreated into the underbrush, out of Trudy’s throwing range.

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Dinner was potato and leek soup, lightly flavoured by Mole’s endless tales of nearly being assassinated in his sleep while camping variously in the woods, on the roof of a ridiculously spindly tower, or above a dragon’s den for warmth, and an improvised drum solo by Dolly, followed by a song so bawdy it made Hungerford retreat blushing into his hat.

Since no one had packed for a camping expedition, they decided to wedge themselves into the back of the cart for the night. Hungerford turned uneasily, stuck between the side and Mole.

“What’s that smell?” Munck asked suspiciously.

“I don’t smell anything,” Trudy said from the other end of the cart.

“Is one of you wearing cologne?”

“I got a little salve on my back,” Mole said.

“And I put a bit of goose fat on my chest,” said Aunt Dolly.

“Little bit of rheumatism ointment,” Trudy admitted.

“What are you lot trying to do, pickle yourself?”

Trudy glared through the dark. “Be grateful, whippersnapper, this pickling is what allowed you to find us seventy years too late.”

Mole snorted loud enough to scare off the wolf three trees over.

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Trudy had awoken early, as was her habit, and as if by unheard agreement, so had Mole and Dolly. They let Munck sleep a bit longer while Mole fetched water and Trudy baked improvised pancakes from leftover flour and oats on a hot stone, regaled by Dolly’s camping tales which at any rate where not for Hungerford’s innocent ears.

“My kingdom for a stove,” Trudy grumbled. The swelling in her hand had reduced nicely but it was still smarting with every move. Her eldest daughter Vibeke, if she could see her like this, would hold a lecture about Knowing Your Limits, Mother and another one with the delightful topic of Not Being As Young As You Used To Be, You Have Us Worried Sick. Kids!, Trudy thought. They turn forty, they think they know everything.

At least she wouldn’t have to knead any more dough that day, since she had made Dolly do it.

“Someone’s kingdom for a bath,” Dolly said, returning from watering the horse. She stretched idly, hoping the other old gal didn’t have any more chores for her, while watching a few tiny birds hopping around the campsite, trying to pilfer spilt oats. “Might take a dip into that stream Mole found, you coming?”

It was, all in all, a nice morning in the woods, dry, crisp air. Not too bad a day to traipse around naked in nature. “The last time I skinny-dipped in a stream I was discovered immediately by a beautiful peasant girl.”

Dolly shrugged. “Well, you never know your luck. Pers’nally, I’d settle for a rugged woodcutter, cast-iron pecs, thighs big enough to … say, is it getting hot out here?”

“Let me just finish up with these pancakes. Stonecakes.”

Dolly watched her, as there was nothing better than watching someone work instead of doing it yourself. “What’s that you’re humming, by the way?” Trudy hummed often, and she didn’t always seem to notice that she was doing it.

“Oh, just an old rhyme, it’s stuck in my head. Maybe you know it? Sing a song for sixpence, pocket full of lies?”

“Really? You learned it with ‘Pocket full of lies’? We used to sing pocket full of rye.”

“Exactly,” Mole said, returning with a fresh load of twigs that could be fed to the campfire. “And the next verse goes, ‘The king was in his chamber’.”

“No, the king was in the counting house, counting all his money,” Dolly said. “Pers’nally I thought it was the most inspiring part.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Trudy said. “Not about inspiration, just the verse.”

Dolly went on: “And the third verse starts with ‘The stewards in the garden …’”

Mole looked at her incredulous. “What?”

“No, it was the maid,” Trudy said. “Maid in the garden, hanging up the clothes.”

“No, it goes ‘The stewards in the garden, flesh and blood and bone, danced in a round so jolly, and called the forgotten home.’”

“That’s a bit dark,” Mole commented.

Trudy scoffed. “Oh, and ‘digging all his graves’ isn’t?”

“Is any of that important now?” Hungerford called over, awoken by the sound of three people arguing irrelevancies at increasing volumes, and all before breakfast. “Will someone please help me fetch more water? I’m parched and we need it for the way anyhow.”

“I’m done with the stonecakes, I’ll do it,” Trudy said with a sigh, grabbed the provided bottles and followed after the sulking wizard. “You’re in a mood, Ford.”

“Well, we were attacked by a dragon, dropped gods know where, and I have no idea how to get us back to the road, and you three are bickering about some old rhyme!”

Trudy patted his shoulder as they reached the stream. She let herself down carefully on creaking knees. “I know what you think, I was young once. It’s not easy being around old people. They repeat themselves, they’re cranky, they’re set in their ways, they repeat themselves ...”

“You said repeat themselves twice.”

“Ah, shut up. You probably remember it from your grandparents, anyway.”

“I never knew my grandparents,” Hungerford admitted grumbling.

“And how old are your parents now?”

The wizard kept his eyes on the bottles he was slowly filling in the stream. “I don’t have those, as such, I believe I told you that.”

“No wonder you act like you were raised by wolves.”

“Wizards. Actually, not that big of a difference.”

Trudy nudged him and placed something in his hand. “Here, have a butterscotch. Don’t tell the others. It’s from my secret stash.”

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Mole was under the cart when they returned with their water bottles. Hungerford put them down and went to remove Dolly, who was poking the adventurer with a stick because she was bored.

Munck bent down and peered under the wagon. “How are we going to fix this?”

“I could probably patch it up enough until we find a settlement,” Mole took in the damage. “It’s only those two wheels what splintered, axle’s looking fine, but the side and the beams that held the covering are shot to every hell. Can someone help me up?”

It took all three of them to wrench Mole out and assist him back in the vertical world without his back seizing up. “Thank you. Munck, any chance for a repair spell?”

“Uh,” Munck grabbed his battered spellbook and plopped on the ground as he searched. “There is one, but it’s for damage no bigger than a foot wide …”

“So use several.”

“I can try. Oof,” he added to the encouraging clap Mole delivered on his skinny back.

“You can do it, Munck, I believe in you.”

“Really?”

“I believe you wouldn’t want an old fella with back problems traipsing around the woods all day trying to find something with which to fix a whole wagon.”

And complain about it the entire time, Munck added mentally. “I suppose.” He grabbed his staff, rolled up his sleeves, and knelt down by the first broken wheel.

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“How are you feeling, my boy, better?”

“Nuh-huh,” Hungerford mumbled, almost lulled to sleep by the slow rumpling over forest ground. Mole was somewhere beyond his feet, lightly pushing the cart Munck was lying on over the uneven territory, and grinning all the time. “Those repair spells really take it out of you, eh?”

“I told you to eat first,” Trudy’s strict voice echoed through Hungerford’s brain. She must be the one leading the horse, which somehow seemed to obey her best. “I said, Ford, you haven’t had a proper meal in a day, casting magic on an empty stomach is no good for you, didn’t I say that?”

“Yes, Miss Trudy,” Hungerford droned obediently.

“But it worked, didn’t it?” Dolly could be heard and a moment later another wet cloth hit Munck’s forehead. “I quite enjoyed the twinkly lights. How do you make the twinkly lights, Hungerford?”

“It’s the magical residue …”

“Dolly, make him sit up and eat the rest of the pancakes.”

“I can eat them without him sitting up.”

“Dolly!”

“Little joke! He’s laughing. Right, Hungerford? Or are you just fainting again?”

Hungerford pushed himself up on his elbows. Unfortunately, Trudy was right, as was her habit. Between the floating spell he’d cast on the wagon and his lack of food, casting a series of other spells had been a bad idea, you learned how to manage your energy the first years of wizard school. Balgimantas had never allowed him to use much magic at all, not even for practical affairs such as laundry or cooking, which he insisted were causes too benign to waste arcane energy on when apprentice energy was a free and easily renewable resource. “I’m fine,” he mumbled but wolved down the offered pancakes.

“No wonder they call you Hungerford,” Dolly commented on the display.

“How’s the magic?” Mole asked. “Think you can get us out of the woods?”

“And I suppose you’ll suggest I take off my hat so it’ll point me towards the next road?”

“Would it kill you to try?” Trudy called over her shoulder.

“Fine, but there is no way in the world this wo… oh.”

Mole squinted at the hat in Hungerford’s hand. “Splendid, only five more miles!”